Smoke Screen
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: A man with a mission confronts Roarke and Leslie about some past guests. Follows 'But the Cat Came Back...'
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Did anyone ever wonder what those disappearing characters from several_ Fantasy Island _episodes left behind? How did Mr. Roarke ever get away with letting them vanish like that? That's the thinking behind this story premise. Due to the usual holiday madness, the chapters will be posted as I manage to find time to complete them, so don't worry…eventually you'll get to read the whole thing! Many, many thanks again to my reviewers—you guys are the greatest, and I hope your Christmas (or whatever you celebrate) season is fantastic!_

§ § § -- May 6, 1995

The bell clanged in the tower and native girls streamed across the porch, as they had done every Saturday morning for many years now. Roarke emerged from inside the house and strolled to the top of the porch steps, pausing to check his gold watch and give the weather a cursory glance. A moment later Leslie came across the veranda and grinned at him. "Well, good morning, Father."

Roarke turned to her and grinned back, a whimsical twinkle in his dark eyes. "Good morning, birthday girl!" he greeted her, and she laughed. "How does it feel to be thirty years old, then? Or has it sunk in yet?"

Leslie shrugged, then leaned in slightly towards him. "Speaking of 'sunk in'…do my eyes look that way to you?"

Roarke's smile faded and he stared at her. "Leslie Susan, you are 30, not 300." She blinked at him, and he gestured toward the car that was just pulling up in the lane. "Perhaps we'd better go and greet our guests before you have too much time to ponder the concept." He descended the steps, replacing his watch and shaking his head all at once. "Sunken eyes, indeed! I dare not ask what's next!"

When they stepped out of the vehicle at the plane dock, the natives gathering in the clearing called a stream of birthday greetings to Leslie as they took their usual places; she smiled and waved acknowledgment of their good wishes. "Okay," she said to Roarke once he had called for smiles and signaled the band into action, "so I guess my eyes aren't sunken in. But it had nothing to do with turning 30. I just didn't get much sleep last night."

"Oh? Why not?" Roarke asked.

"Because of him," she said, gesturing at the plane dock, where a lanky, somewhat pockmarked young man with prematurely thinning dark hair was making his way along, refusing the leis and plucking a drink off a tray without looking. "Are you really sure he's a bounty hunter, Father?"

"Yes, I'm afraid he is," Roarke confirmed. "Barry Lorimer has based his business in his native Little Rock, Arkansas, but has taken on searches from every part of the United States. He specializes in the disappearances of well-known people. The reason he is here is, he says, to close several old cases that have been open for quite a few years now."

"Why would he come here to do that?" Leslie asked.

"Because these cases have one thing in common: their subjects all vanished while visiting Fantasy Island." Roarke felt Leslie's dismay but shifted his attention to their next guests; however, she was too uneasy to pay more than surface attention. There was a look about Barry Lorimer that suggested he intended to make trouble for them. _If he ruins my birthday…_ she thought despite herself, then rolled her eyes at her own shallow thinking. _Don't be an idiot, Leslie Susan Hamilton! Besides, he's no match for Father. They never are._ Comforted by that, she found it easier to smile when Roarke raised his glass in toast.

‡‡‡

Barry Lorimer stretched a bony hand across the desk and shook with Roarke, then nodded in Leslie's direction before taking a chair at Roarke's invitation. "Can we get you anything, Mr. Lorimer?" Roarke inquired.

Lorimer shook his head. "No thanks, Mr. Roarke. Let's just get down to brass tacks. I have sources that say you know something about the disappearances of these people." He produced a folder from a worn, fraying backpack and handed it to Roarke, who opened it and held it so that Leslie could also see the contents. He was expressionless, but she found herself startled with recognition in all four cases. Lorimer noticed. "You remember them?"

"It's been quite a few years for most of them, but yes, I do," she said. "Duke McCall, the undersea adventurer; Pete Gilbert, the multimillionaire businessman and investor; David Farley, the actor; and Greta Gail O'Donahue, the tobacco heiress."

Lorimer nodded. "Every one of them disappeared here on this island, and since it's your island, Mr. Roarke, you obviously hold the key to the resolution of these cases."

Roarke glanced once more at the contents of the folder before closing it and returning it to its owner. "That may be, Mr. Lorimer. But I must ask you one question before I breach the privacy of any of these people: under whose authority are you acting in each case?"

Lorimer extracted another folder, this one of the pocket type that Leslie remembered having used in her school days. "Contracts and consent forms, search warrants and other documentation, Mr. Roarke. Unless you insist, I see no need to make you go through all this. I can tell you that Duke McCall's and Pete Gilbert's ex-wives want them found; David Farley's lawyer is looking for him. And Greta Gail O'Donahue's entire family is employing every authority in the country in their search for her."

"I see," said Roarke, holding out his hand for the folder anyway. Plainly reluctant, Lorimer gave it to him. "Do you work within the law, Mr. Lorimer?"

Lorimer stared at him, his lower jaw tensing; his silence stretched out long enough that his host looked up. After a moment Roarke nodded once or twice. "So your methods are not entirely aboveboard, then."

"I do what I have to in order to find my clients," Lorimer said tightly.

"In that case, you should be aware that I am the final and highest authority on this island," Roarke informed him pleasantly. "In each of the cases you cite, I promised not to reveal their whereabouts. In all four cases, these people were guests of mine; and they all had fantasies which they desired to make permanent. That is all I am prepared to tell you."

"Are you _prepared_ to face the individuals who hired me to find these people?" Lorimer shot back. "Here's the thing in a nutshell, Mr. Roarke. You can deal with me, now, alone; or you can deal with at least ten very upset and determined clients. Your choice."

Roarke leaned forward. "Is that a threat, Mr. Lorimer?"

The bounty hunter shrugged. "Take it any way you like. But my fantasy is to find out what happened to these people, if not bring them back to the States; and since I paid you good money for it, you're obligated to grant it."

Roarke regarded him for long enough that he began to look frustrated; then he said, "From the beginning, I had reservations about granting your fantasy. However, in the face of your obstinacy, it would appear I have no other choice." He drew in a breath and arose from his chair, prompting Lorimer to follow suit. "Very well, Mr. Lorimer, I will assist you in the pursuit of your resolutions. But be warned…you will find it impossible to bring any of them back with you."

"I'll take that chance," Lorimer said. "Where do I find them?"

"We will begin with Mr. Farley," Roarke said. "As you recall, David Farley was best known for playing the role of Jungle Man on the 1970s television series of that name. If you will kindly follow me, we will take you to where we last left him in March of 1980." He gestured toward the door of the time-travel room; Lorimer headed for it, and Roarke waited for Leslie to fall in beside him.

"Father…" she began in a whisper.

Roarke smiled, glancing at Lorimer's retreating back. "Don't worry, Leslie. Our guest will be enlightened quickly enough by the very people he is seeking." There was a twinkle in his dark eyes that made her wonder what he knew that she didn't.

"Mr. Roarke, if you don't mind," Lorimer said impatiently. Roarke focused on him and nodded, approaching the door and swinging it open. Within stood tall potted ferns, and a soft mist was already swirling around Lorimer's feet, hiding the floor from view. Lorimer stared at it, then at Roarke, squinting. "What's this supposed to be?"

"Just step inside, Mr. Lorimer," Roarke directed patiently. "Wait for a moment and you will find your quarry."

Lorimer eyed him suspiciously, but edged into the room anyway. Roarke smiled in friendly fashion. "Do let us know what happens," he suggested before closing the door.

Leslie looked pensive, gazing at the door for a moment, then sighed. "He's a pretty determined guy," she said. "What if he manages to bring them back?"

"Wait and see," Roarke said serenely, going back to his desk and settling behind it.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- May 6, 1995

Half an hour passed before the door abruptly flew open and Lorimer strode into the study, looking very annoyed. Roarke and Leslie looked up. "Well, Mr. Lorimer, did you find what you sought?" Roarke inquired, while Leslie stared curiously at the three small, bleeding cuts on Lorimer's scrawny neck.

"I don't quite know," Lorimer grunted, scowling. "I found Farley all right, but everybody kept saying there was no such person. It took me twenty minutes just to get close enough to Farley to even talk to him. In the meantime I was dodging little poison darts and trying to avoid the advances of someone calling herself Princess Rima…and there must've been half a dozen kids throwing rocks at me. Then Farley himself finally came out of this little hut on stilts and stopped the whole farce with a couple words, and asked me what I was doing there. So I told him, and he insisted on taking me off into the trees before he'd even talk to me." He rubbed one of the cuts and examined the blood that smeared across his fingers, grimacing. "The guy honestly thinks he's Jungle Man. Cryin' out loud, he's gone right around the bend. His lawyer wanted to declare him dead. She might be better off doing just that. Anyway, I told him I needed him to come back at least long enough to explain what happened to him. He wasn't having it."

"That, Mr. Lorimer, is because Mr. Farley's fantasy was to actually become Jungle Man," Roarke explained. "He could get no other work in Hollywood, and his life had no further meaning for him in the guise of David Farley; so he assumed the identity of his television character, giving up the identity he was born with."

Lorimer stared at him. "That's what he told me, but it's completely insane. His lawyer could easily have him certified. What kind of crazy idiot goes off into some silly fantasy world forever?"

"Mr. Farley did," said Roarke. "And when I left him, he appeared quite intelligent and sane to me. Has that changed in the years since he became Jungle Man?"

Lorimer scowled even more and eyed the ceiling before reluctantly admitting, "No, he looked like all his marbles were in the right place." He sighed loudly in exasperation. "I had to settle for his signature granting power of attorney to his lawyer. He didn't care one bit what happened to his property in Hollywood. Can you believe that?"

"Yes, indeed I can," said Roarke calmly and smiled. "So I trust that your questions in regard to Mr. Farley have been conclusively answered?"

"I suppose they have to be," Lorimer grumbled. "No point in dwelling on it though. If I can't bring Farley back, then I'll haul Pete Gilbert's butt back."

"You're likely to have just as much trouble with Mr. Gilbert as you did with Mr. Farley," Leslie observed, remembering the fantasizer in question from her first summer on the island. "And by the way, you'll have to dress appropriately before you go after him."

Lorimer turned his scowl on her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She got to her feet and picked up several folded garments from where they lay atop Roarke's desk; he had procured them while Lorimer was hunting for David Farley. "Go on back into the room you just came out of and change into these." She handed him the clothing and waited while he poked through the items with rising bewilderment.

"You know, you two are making this a lot harder than it needs to be," Lorimer complained irritably. "All I have to do is go in, get him and come out."

Roarke chuckled. "Mr. Lorimer, you must remember: you are on Fantasy Island, and the individuals you're seeking are now living in their fantasies. Consider the meaning of that, and try to be prepared for the unexpected. After all, we deal in the unexpected every day. If you really wish to find them, then you'll simply have to play along." He gestured toward the time-travel room. "You should find that room empty now, if you prefer to change your attire therein."

Lorimer rolled his eyes and stomped into the room, slamming the door behind him. Roarke and Leslie looked at each other and grinned a bit wearily. After a few minutes their guest reappeared, red-faced as much with anger as with embarrassment. "This is ridiculous, Roarke," he snapped, fingering the ruffled lace-up velvet shirt and ballooning knickers.

"Patience, Mr. Lorimer, patience," Roarke counseled. "Now if you'll come with us, we will take you to Mr. Gilbert."

Lorimer followed them out of the house, grumbling under his breath all the way and not letting up till Roarke had stopped the station wagon in front of a covered bridge. When Lorimer saw the fog that roiled within it, he stopped muttering and slowly got out of the car, eyeing it dubiously. "What's that?"

"That is where you must go in order to locate Pete Gilbert," Roarke said. "You need only walk through it; then, simply look for the nearest tavern and you should find him."

"Tavern? You mean a bar? Cripes, Gilbert's turned into a lush, is that it? Oh, his ex is gonna be thrilled stupid. She's gonna have to dry him out before she can deal with him. I wouldn't blame her if she decided to sue you, Roarke…that's gotta be the most irresponsible thing I've ever heard of. Imagine granting a guy's fantasy to go on a lifelong drinking binge! What's it been now, fifteen years? He's probably dead of cirrhosis by now."

"Why don't you go through the bridge and get the real story?" Leslie demanded, having heard enough. Lorimer glared at her, and she gave him an overly-sweet smile and goaded him, "Or are you afraid of what you'll find?"

"Don't push me, lady," Lorimer barked and turned to Roarke. "Are you and this smart-mouthed daughter of yours gonna be here when I bring Gilbert back?"

"We will wait, yes," Roarke agreed placidly, shifting gears into _park_ and settling more comfortably behind the wheel. "Good luck, Mr. Lorimer."

Roarke and Leslie watched while Lorimer, dressed in his frilly, fussy, old-fashioned clothing, jogged across the grass and vanished into the fog within the bridge. Then Leslie leaned forward from the middle seat of the car and asked, "Do you think I went too far?"

Roarke eyed her sidelong and then chuckled. "Actually, I suspect that Tattoo would have said very much the same thing had he been here." Leslie laughed and settled back in her seat for the wait.

This time around it took just over an hour before the fog within the bridge disgorged the bounty hunter. He approached them noticeably more slowly than he had left them; as he drew closer, Roarke and Leslie saw that his clothing was torn in a few places and he was coated head to toe with dark dust. One of the cuts he'd acquired earlier was bleeding again, and gleaming out from his dusty visage was a swelling and heavily-bruised eye.

"What happened, Mr. Lorimer?" asked Roarke with concern.

Lorimer collapsed into the front passenger seat, raising a body-length puff of the dust he wore and exuding the odor of dirt and sweat. Leslie caught Roarke's eye in the rearview mirror and they both grimaced slightly. "Got in a fight," Lorimer said, panting.

"Oh?" prompted Roarke.

"Fight, as in 'drunken brawl'?" suggested Leslie.

"No, fight, as in 'I made Pete Gilbert mad'," Lorimer corrected sourly between breaths. "He just looked at me the whole time I was explaining who I was and why I was there, gulping some foul-smelling brew out of a huge silver cup, but he didn't say a word—not even when I mentioned Faith, his ex. But then I told him Faith had hired me to bring him back, and he tossed the cup over his shoulder and hauled off and socked me."

"Without saying anything?" Leslie asked, amazed.

"Not one flippin' word," growled Lorimer, having caught enough breath to be able to expend some of it on his rising ire. "Not at least till he hit me. Then he grabbed me like some damn puppy, by the scruff of my neck, and dragged me all the way across the bar—"

"Tavern," Roarke and Leslie corrected simultaneously.

"Across the _tavern,"_ Lorimer snarled. "That's when he said, very calmly, that I could tell Faith from him that she could…" Here he paused, and his battered face took on a confused look. "He said, and I quote: 'She can find a blackguard of her own to bleed dry and hang from the rafters, and I shall remain Faithless forevermore'." He peered at Roarke. "Whatever that means. I mean, he sounded like everlastin' Shakespeare."

"Well, that would be somewhat appropriate," said Roarke. "You see, Mr. Gilbert prefers to remain a denizen of eighteenth-century England, and I have no doubt that fifteen years after retreating to that era, he has grown to sound like a native."

"You'd think he'd _met_ Shakespeare, if he's making puns," Leslie remarked wryly.

Lorimer shifted his confused look to her. "What pun?" he said blankly. Leslie stared at him in disbelief, and he turned back to Roarke. "By the way, what's a blackguard?"

Roarke cleared his throat and again met Leslie's stare in the mirror, just for half a second. "Perhaps you should return to your bungalow and freshen up before you attempt to locate Duke McCall," he said, starting the car and propelling it forward. "And why don't you take your time, Mr. Lorimer? I will need some extra time to contact Mr. McCall."

"Is that so?" Lorimer demanded, brought out of his bewilderment by this reminder of his mission. "Don't tell me. McCall's fantasy was to become a drug lord, and he has a fortress in the mountains and ten million bodyguards all armed with AK-47s."

"No, nothing quite like that," Roarke assured him. "But he is somewhat…uh, remote, shall we say. I will call for you in approximately two hours."

Lorimer sighed loudly. "All right, all right. And while you're at it, get me a doctor so I can get this shiner looked at. Geez, why'd he have to go and do that? Eighteenth-century England, for cryin' out loud! The place stank to high heaven and all the women were half-dressed, and everybody was talking like some Shakespeare play. Couldn't understand most of what they said. What on earth could he see in that time?"

"Did you get him to sign a power of attorney?" Leslie asked curiously.

"No, and he informed me before he dropped me in the dirt that his lawyer, some guy named Mark Hendricks, has power of attorney and both Faith and I should go find _him_ instead." Lorimer eyed Roarke with annoyance. "Why didn't you tell me that?"

"Would you have listened?" Leslie asked before Roarke could say anything.

Lorimer, caught out, snorted disgustedly and fell silent. Leslie grinned to herself and noted the amused gleam in Roarke's eye through the mirror. "I will call Dr. Ordoñez to have a look at your eye," Roarke said as though nothing had happened. "He's a fine doctor and should be able to help you. Here we are. As I said, take your time."

"Two hours, Roarke," Lorimer said. "I want to get this done, and I still have to go after Greta Gail O'Donahue." He half rolled out of the car and plodded up the steps of the bungalow; Roarke chuckled low so that only Leslie heard, and drove away.

"It's been some time since we've seen Nyah," Leslie noted on their way into the house. "I wonder what she's going to think about this whole thing."

"Very little, I'm sure," remarked Roarke amiably. "On the other hand, perhaps marriage has mellowed her a bit. Why don't you check with Mariki in regard to the noon meal while I address the problem."

Leslie nodded and went off to the kitchen; Roarke made a couple of quick phone calls, then went to stand between the open French shutters and gaze into the sky. Always before, it had been Nyah who had summoned him; but he knew how to call her when the need arose. The problem was whether she would bother to answer.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- May 6, 1995

Lorimer was waiting when Roarke and Leslie pulled to a stop in front of his bungalow. "Well?" he demanded.

Roarke smiled. "We are here to take you to Mr. McCall. You look refreshed, Mr. Lorimer; and even your injured eye looks much better."

"Yeah, that doctor's a pretty decent guy," Lorimer agreed a touch grudgingly, swinging himself into the passenger seat. "Let's quit wasting time and get on with it."

About halfway down the southern side of the island, perhaps a mile or so past the Enclave, Roarke pulled the car into a small turnaround at the side of the Ring Road and parked there. They got out, and Lorimer scowled again while Roarke led him and Leslie down a path that skirted the edge of a cliff, shaded by palms and yielding spectacular views of the South Pacific. Lorimer, his temper gearing up again, barely noticed the natural beauty that surrounded him and his hosts. "What the hell is going on here, Roarke?" he demanded. "If McCall isn't a drug lord, then what is he, Tarzan?"

"No, Mr. Lorimer," said Roarke, just as they came to a cleared space at the very lip of the cliff where they could look directly down into tidal pools some forty feet below them. Leslie came around to stand at his side, while Lorimer settled his stance and folded his arms across his chest, glaring at Roarke impatiently. When neither Roarke nor Leslie met his gaze but instead watched the restless ocean beneath them, he directed his own attention that way as well.

Perhaps a minute or two slid by; then two lithe, dark shapes came into view under the blue-green waves as the threesome watched. "Oh, cripes," moaned Lorimer. "He's gone and turned into a dolphin?"

"You're getting warmer," Leslie said lightly. "Keep trying. Better yet, let him show you for himself." No sooner had she spoken than two heads broke the surface and peered up at them curiously.

"Well, Roarke, this had better be good," Nyah greeted them in irritation. "The quindecaplets are napping and due to awaken any moment. What do you want?"

"The request isn't mine, actually, Nyah," Roarke said apologetically. "This gentleman here wishes to speak with your husband."

Lorimer had been squinting down at them. "Hey, mister, you're Duke McCall, right?" he shouted. McCall, treading water alongside Nyah, looked astonished.

"Yeah, so?" he yelled back.

"I'm a bounty hunter, and your ex hired me to find you and get you back so that she can haggle with you about a couple pieces of property that evidently got overlooked in your divorce back in 1982. Now that you're here…and incidentally, what're you doing here?"

"I'm a merman," McCall replied casually. "Tell Tracey she can have everything, no questions asked. I don't need it anymore."

Lorimer stared at him. "You're a which?"

"You idiotic mortal," Nyah snapped. "He's not a witch, he's a merman, didn't you hear him? Great Neptune, Roarke, your guests have become quite stupid since last I saw you."

McCall reached out and smoothed her long, seaweed-festooned hair. "Nyah, sweetheart, why don't you go back and check on the quindecaplets, huh? It looks like this is my problem, so there's no need for you to hang out around here."

Nyah huffed. "Perhaps not, but if you haven't returned within ten minutes, I'll come back for you, quindecaplets or not." She ducked under and was gone in a twinkling, her tail flicking above the surface once before she vanished. Lorimer saw it and blinked.

"Did you say a merman?" he asked weakly.

McCall nodded cheerfully. "Sure did! Want to see?" He flipped himself up so that he was floating, making himself plainly visible from blond head to glistening gray-green tail. Lorimer gaped, mouth hanging open, swollen eye as wide as it would go, while Roarke and Leslie watched with great amusement. McCall waved up at them, and they both returned his greeting before he popped back upright. "Mr. Roarke did it all. And Nyah's the most amazing woman…mermaid…creature of any kind that I've ever known. Can you believe it, pal? I'm married to the Princess of the Seven Seas. Jacques Cousteau must be rolling in his grave with jealousy."

"How have you been these past years, Mr. McCall?" Roarke inquired.

"Fantastic! Nyah and I have been all over the world, and I've revisited my favorite dive sites over and over again. I've seen some new ones, too. You wouldn't believe what's at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. And we have forty-five kids now—the quindecaplets were born just eight months ago and they'll start school in about three weeks."

"Quin…what?" blathered Lorimer.

"Fifteen at once," McCall boasted, beaming from ear to ear. "All of them girls and the spitting image of their mother. About time, too. The first thirty were all boys. The octuplets celebrated their seventh birthdays last month, and Nyah and I took them to the wreck of the _Titanic_ as a present. We could barely get them away from it."

"Oh, I'm sure," Roarke agreed. "Congratulations on the new arrivals."

"Do you _mind?"_ Lorimer roared all of a sudden, startling them all. "Look, Mr. McCall, Tracey's paid me to find you, so if you'd just come with me…"

McCall eyed him oddly. "Are you kidding, mister? In case you haven't noticed, I'm not equipped for land travel. And I refuse to have anything to do with Tracey, not after she ditched me right after that nearly-fatal diving accident I had when I was human. If all she cares about are the boats, then give them to her. I couldn't care less. Tell her, if she really wants to see me that bad, then she can meet me in Samoa. Nyah and the kids and I will be there next week to visit my father-in-law."

"Your father-in-law! And he's what, a killer whale?" Lorimer sneered.

"No, he's…" McCall began, then caught himself and scowled up at Lorimer. "You know, you're really getting on my nerves. Mr. Roarke, what's with this guy?"

"I apologize, but I'm afraid he insisted," Roarke said with a shrug. "He was very determined to locate you, and unfortunately, this was the only way we could convince him that you are beyond reach now."

"Uh-huh," McCall said, nodding and addressing Lorimer then. "Well, bud, you've seen for yourself that I have a whole different life, and I prefer it this way."

"But you have to appear in person…" Lorimer began.

McCall grew annoyed. "Look, what do I have to do to get you off my back once and for all? And you better hurry up and let me know, because you have about three minutes before my wife comes back. She doesn't suffer fools, and you're looking like a bigger one every second."

"Well, would you be willing to sign an affidavit?" Lorimer queried with resignation. "Just so the interested parties know you're alive and well and you relinquish all property you held in real life?" He caught McCall's glare and amended, "Or rather, on land?"

"If you can get down here and into the water, then I'll do it, but I'm not going back," said McCall flatly. "This is my life, no matter how unreal it seems to you, and I don't intend to take any breaks from it, any more than you'd probably stop bounty-hunting."

Lorimer threw his hands into the air. "Okay, okay. Mr. Roarke, is there some way for me to get down there?"

"Uh…not from here, I'm afraid," Roarke said, clearing his throat.

"Unless you jump," McCall shouted tauntingly from below them.

Lorimer goggled. "Are you nuts? You tryin' to turn me into fish food? What'd I ever do to you anyway?"

"You know, you could always fold the affidavit into a paper airplane and send it down to him that way," Leslie remarked. Roarke gave her a dirty look, and she grinned.

"How would I ever get it back up here?" Lorimer snapped.

"Aw, c'mon, it's only forty feet," McCall yelled, grinning wickedly. "I used to dive off Mexican cliffs more than twice that height when I was a fraternity pledge. You can do it feet first if it makes you feel any better." He noticed Roarke's long-suffering, _why me?_ expression and relented. "Oh, all right. Hey, Leslie, here's a trick I learned from Nyah the day I became a merman." He whistled piercingly, the melody to the first two lines of the chorus of the John Denver song "Calypso", and presently a seagull flapped into view and settled comfortably onto his shoulder.

"Oh, that's terrific!" Leslie exclaimed, laughing. "I love it!"

"Now for the good part," said McCall and proceeded to squeal at the bird in creditable imitation of its own cries. The gull responded with a screech and launched itself off McCall's shoulder, winging its way up in Lorimer's direction.

Lorimer grew alarmed and tried to duck aside. "Hey, what is this, _The Birds_ now!"

"Stand still, pal," McCall bellowed up at him, all patience now gone. "Give the affidavit to the seagull, and it'll bring it down here so I can sign it. Fold it a couple times and clip a pen to it. Then I'll send it back up the same way."

"Oh," mumbled Lorimer and rolled his eyes, resettling himself. The gull landed on his shoulder; he extracted a sheet of paper and a pen from his backpack, folded the page twice and attached the pen by its cap, and stuck the whole kit into the gull's beak. The bird took off and dropped most of the forty feet to McCall before employing its wings to stop its headlong fall and perching on the merman's shoulder once again.

Within a minute Lorimer had his signed affidavit, and none too soon: Nyah's head popped out of the water beside McCall and she glared up at the bounty hunter. "Have you quite finished with my husband yet?" she demanded.

"Yeah, I guess. Geez, you're touchy, lady," Lorimer remarked.

Nyah narrowed her eyes and turned to the gull that now sat atop McCall's head, preening its feathers. She squealed at it, and the gull promptly took off, circling Lorimer before relieving itself on his balding head. This happened in the space of five seconds, and only Roarke realized what Nyah had in mind; but it was too late to stop her. "There," said Nyah in satisfaction, while Lorimer bellowed in rage and stripped the leaves off the nearest palm frond in a mostly vain attempt to clean himself up.

"Nyah…" Roarke sighed, shaking his head.

McCall, though he was grinning, said, "Shame on you, sweetheart. He was all done here too. We're free to go anytime."

"Oh?" said Nyah. "Well, my love, if you had merely told me as soon as I arrived, I would simply have bid him goodbye. Now, Roarke, is that all, or do you have other business with us?"

"No, that's all," Roarke assured her. "Thank you for coming, and I hope you enjoy your vacation in Samoa."

McCall waved at them, and he and Nyah dove under the waves in twin splashes, tails flashing bright in the spring sunlight. In seconds they had vanished from sight; Roarke let his relief show till he realized Leslie had seen his expression and was trying unsuccessfully to stifle her amusement at it. He frowned at her and cleared his throat again, addressing Lorimer. "Well, then, Mr. Lorimer, shall we take you back to your bungalow?"

"Yeah, right," Lorimer muttered, still trying to mop his head with a glossy green leaf. "Man, this whole thing has been about as unreal as I could ever imagine. I hate to ask what happened to Greta Gail O'Donahue. Tell me, Roarke, that she hasn't decided to become a wood nymph, or gone off to live in fourth-century Rome, or taken on the identity of Sheba, Queen of the Jungle."

"No, none of that," said Roarke, "but I should warn you that she has in fact gone back in time." Lorimer's horrified look prompted him to add, "Oh, not to England or Rome, no. But why don't you freshen up and have some lunch before tackling that particular part of your fantasy? You've accomplished a great deal of work this morning, and surely you would welcome a short break."

"Yeah, I suppose I would," Lorimer said with a heavy sigh. "You know, Roarke, so far my fantasy's been a total bust. I really oughta ask for my money back, especially since I haven't gotten any of the others to come back with me, which probably means my clients aren't gonna pay me." He gave Roarke and Leslie a plaintive look. "How come people hate bounty hunters so much? We're just makin' a living, same as anybody."

"Well," said Leslie delicately, "maybe it's in your approach to people…"

"My what?" Lorimer asked blankly.

"Why don't we go," Roarke broke in and gestured Lorimer out ahead of him before giving Leslie one quick, reproachful glance and striding off in their guest's wake. Leslie shrugged, grinned when her father wasn't watching, and followed them.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- May 6, 1995

At about one that afternoon, Lorimer let himself into the study where Roarke and Leslie had returned from their lunch a few minutes earlier. He was now clad in jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a denim jacket, and carried the folder he had shown his hosts that morning. This he dropped on the desk in front of Roarke. "That's Greta Gail O'Donahue's file," he said. "I took the others' records out, seeing as their cases are essentially closed now. You two might want to refresh your memories."

"Leslie?" Roarke offered, handing her the folder.

She opened it and peered at the file inside; it ran to two pages, the second of which turned out to consist of a list of O'Donahue relatives who wanted to find the missing heiress. She read aloud from the first page, since Roarke and Lorimer both appeared to be waiting. "Greta Gail O'Donahue, birthdate June 18, 1966, of Richmond, Virginia. Heiress to the O'Donahue tobacco fortune. Last seen Fantasy Island, May 30, 1993." A little confused, she looked up at Roarke. "That was almost two years ago, so my memory's faded some. What exactly happened to her, Father?"

"Miss O'Donahue came to us initially wishing to change her identity completely," said Roarke, speaking as much to Lorimer as to Leslie. "She was disenchanted with the reason for her being an heiress, and wanted nothing whatsoever to do with it. Her intention was to shed the name, persona and life of Greta Gail O'Donahue and become someone else of her own invention. At the time, I advised her that she was simply too well-known to make such a thing feasible, due mostly to the fact that she had always been a very visible presence in the social circles frequented by celebrities, and therefore had an easily recognizable face. She would have to change not only her name, but probably her appearance as well.

"This was unacceptable to her, so I encouraged her to think of some way to use her unhappiness with her station in life to make known her position with regard to the origins of her family's wealth. Therefore, you will find her in colonial Virginia, around 1720, Mr. Lorimer. She has been there ever since the thirtieth of May, 1993, crusading against the use of tobacco products."

"And you let her stay there?" Lorimer asked incredulously. "She could just as easily have done the same thing in the present day."

"Consider this, Mr. Lorimer," Roarke said. "A number of whistle-blowers in the tobacco industry have gone public recently with their revelations; and as you may recall, their employers have taken great strides to retaliate against them. Miss O'Donahue was aware that, belonging to the clan of one of the giants in the industry, she was likely to face a great deal of persecution from her relatives. And as you know, she has a very large and extended family, all of whom are dedicated to their livelihood. In Miss O'Donahue's words, they are blind to the effects of their own product, and most of them use it themselves with what she called 'great enthusiasm'."

"Huh," mumbled Lorimer, absorbing this thoughtfully. "Well, I guess she might have a point; but a job's a job, Mr. Roarke. And mine is to go in there and get her back into the family fold. There was a publicity hurricane following her disappearance, even though the family managed to keep most of the details from comin' out." He eyed Roarke meaningfully. "One of those details was the name of the place where she vanished—and a good thing for you, since I expect your business would've fallen way off if that'd come out."

"That's beside the point, Mr. Lorimer," Leslie told him coldly.

Roarke said, "I am not without my own resources, and undoubtedly the O'Donahues are well aware of that fact. However, that isn't the issue under discussion here; I'm sure you're eager to find Miss O'Donahue. One final word before you commence: as with the others, it is highly unlikely you'll succeed in persuading her to return."

"You told me that before, and my answer's still the same. I'll take that chance. Now, where do I go to find her…and do I have to turn myself out like some prancing dandy, the way I did when I was lookin' for Gilbert?"

Leslie smiled slowly, a particular gleam in her eye. "Well, you'll have to dress appropriately for the era."

"Yes," agreed Roarke, his own smile only partially apologetic. "You certainly wouldn't fit into eighteenth-century Virginia in your current attire."

"And what did they wear in eighteenth-century Virginia?" Lorimer pressed, in a slow, dread-filled drawl, correctly reading their expressions.

"Approximately what they were wearing in eighteenth-century England," Leslie said. "But you don't have to wear the same clothes you had on then, since they're a bit worse for wear. We have new ones for you. Come this way and I'll show you." She led the way to the time-travel room; Lorimer eyed Roarke, who extended a hand indicating that he should go on ahead. The bounty hunter muttered something under his breath and fell in behind Leslie, while Roarke brought up the rear and watched his daughter handle the situation.

"Now," said Leslie, opening the door, "this is your gateway to colonial Virginia. You can change in here before you go, and just leave your clothes on the table there. They'll be waiting for you when you get back. Once you get dressed, climb onto that platform and rest your wrists in the holes in the stocks there, and wait a few minutes."

"You're serious, aren't you?" Lorimer asked her, looking incredulous.

"Every bit as serious as you are about finding Miss O'Donahue," Leslie assured him. "And don't get self-conscious about the clothes. Everyone around you will be wearing things just like them, so you're not going to stand out. Good luck." She stepped aside to let him in, then pulled the door shut.

"Nicely done, my child," Roarke said warmly. "It's late enough in the day that I think Mr. Lorimer will be fine until tomorrow. And that's as well…the Harrigan fantasy is overdue for a check. We'd better hurry."

"Good," said Leslie, "a change of pace." Roarke laughed, and they left the house.

Inside the time-travel room, Lorimer changed his clothes as instructed, and made a face at the ruffles on the shirt. "One more trip to the eighteenth century and I'll be an expert on it," he grumbled, fighting to stuff his feet into the boots. "Why couldn't these people have disappeared anywhere but on Fantasy Island?" He considered this, then thought of something else and smirked to himself. "On the other hand, Roarke knew exactly where they all were. I bet he could solve the disappearances of Amelia Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa, and that'd make me famous. Probably rich too. Yeah…I'll ask him when I get back with the O'Donahue girl. I could be set for life." His avaricious dreams bloomed in his head while he stood behind the old-fashioned wooden stock, which was open at the moment, and laid his wrists in the holes meant for them.

As soon as he did so, a thick white mist filled the room, obscuring everything; about sixty seconds passed before it dissipated, revealing a primitive town square surrounded mostly by crude log buildings. A couple of edifices boasted brick façades, and a church stood apart by itself, its whitewash gleaming in the sun. Lorimer noted all this in about three seconds before a voice said, "Put yer 'ead down, lad."

Lorimer looked around in surprise and found himself focusing on a rotund, doughy-faced little man with the entrenched sunburn of one who works outdoors for a living. "What?" he said, confused.

"Put yer 'ead down," the man repeated. "We ain't got all day, an' I got me work ta do."

Lorimer stared at him in disbelief. "What'd I do? I mean, I just got here!"

The man sighed wearily and reached up, planting a hand on the back of Lorimer's neck and pushing with surprising strength. Caught off guard, Lorimer allowed himself to be shoved down, and before he knew it he was locked in the stocks, bent over in a very uncomfortable standing position. "There, lad. A night 'ere might make ya think twice about yer fondness fer fire." The man chuckled and jumped off the platform, striding rapidly away across the square.

"But what'd I _do?"_ Lorimer shouted after him, to no avail. "Roarke, I'll get you for this, I promise you!" His ranting produced nothing but a few startled, wary glances, and the people passing by made certain to give him a fairly wide berth, although they obviously had no problem with staring at him.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- May 6, 1995

Three hours passed in this fashion, and by then dusk had fallen and he had been given a decidedly meager meal and a cup of water. His back ached, his feet hurt, and the need to use a bathroom was growing by the minute; he was pretty sure he had at least one splinter in each wrist and a few embedded in his nape as well. He had long since fallen silent, but in his head he was cursing Roarke, Leslie, Greta Gail O'Donahue, the man who had locked him in the stocks, and himself for his own stupidity in getting into this mess.

"Water, sir?" asked a soft feminine voice from his left, the first to have spoken to him since he'd gotten stuck here.

"Water, nothing," Lorimer grunted. "I need an outhouse."

"I see ye dancing in place there, sir," the voice remarked with amusement. "Fear not, I'll have ye out of this contraption in no time. Stand still, if ye please." A dark silhouette crossed his limited field of vision, and he heard the sounds of a lock being picked. After a moment the top half of the stock lifted and he slowly straightened up, clutching the small of his back with both hands and moaning aloud. "Better?"

"It will be when I get that outhouse," Lorimer hinted, squirming. The woman chuckled softly and took his hand, leading him off the platform and hastening him across the now-deserted square. "Hey, who are you and where are we going? And why the heck was I in the stocks in the first place?"

"To find that privy ye're so in need of. And ye can't mean it when ye ask me why! Ye're a hero to me, sir. Burning Fearghal O'Donahue's tobacco crop was an act of inspiration to be sure! I only wish I'd thought of it." They rounded one of the primitive log buildings and crossed a small stream before she stopped him near a small wooden structure. "The privy, sir."

"Perfect," Lorimer gasped and sprinted for it. When he emerged, the woman who had rescued him stood waiting, this time grasping a lantern that shed soft candlelight on her clothing but left her features mostly in shadow. "So, who are you?"

"A friend," came the reply.

"Oh, come on, I'd like to know the identity of my rescuer," Lorimer bantered. "Also, I'm curious as to whether you happen to know a certain Greta Gail O'Donahue."

There was a soft gasp and the lantern lifted slightly, just enough for him to make out the fact that the owner of that name stood before him. "Oh my God, how under the sun did you…?" Lorimer noticed immediately that the pleasant British lilt had vanished from her voice, and she spoke in present-day American vernacular.

"I've been looking for you," he told her, "on behalf of your family. Mr. Roarke sent me back here, telling me this was where you'd gone."

Greta Gail O'Donahue's eyes narrowed and she studied him with rising distrust. "And exactly who are you?"

Lorimer hesitated. "Well…look, before I tell you, do you think we could get some eats someplace? I haven't had anything all afternoon, and you were willing enough to offer me some water a little while ago. Please, Miss O'Donahue. I really don't mean you any harm."

She sighed loudly. "Well, we do have to get back before my meal burns. Come on, let's get out of here. And by the way, call me Greta Gail. To tell you the truth, it's nice to hear my real name after all these months of living under a different identity."

"You changed your name?" Lorimer asked, following her across an open field.

"I had to. You see, the field you're supposed to have burned belongs to my five-times-great grandfather, Fearghal O'Donahue. When I first got here, I was going to claim kinship and see if I could live there awhile, but then I noticed that Mrs. Fearghal and I look almost exactly alike. I didn't dare reveal myself to the family. They're so full of Irish superstition that they'd think I was some sort of spirit, and they'd probably have done their utmost to do me in. So I made sure to keep a low profile. I'm known around here as Patience Anne Lindley. Had to change my crusading plans too." Greta Gail's voice carried a note of disgust. "I had no idea I got my looks from Mrs. Fearghal. It's ironic—I could be her sister, but it's common family knowledge that Mrs. Fearghal was the only girl in a family of fourteen kids. Anyway, it's easier to sneak around and do my damage under an assumed name."

They had reached a tiny log hut and Greta Gail hastened inside, letting Lorimer in before dragging the door shut behind them and dropping a heavy log bar across it. "So you're living some sort of double life, then," Lorimer guessed, settling atop a thick stump near the fireplace. "Law-abiding lady by day, anti-tobacco crusader by night."

Greta Gail laughed. "Something like that, I suppose. I've been explaining about the dangers of smoking ever since I got here, but these people are thicker than glue. Do you know we can blame smoking on the Indians? They got the settlers hooked on nicotine, and ever since then, the world's been puffing away on those disgusting things. Fearghal had had a couple or three very prosperous years before I came here—long enough to prove to him there's money in the vile stuff. He's the only tobacco grower in this miniature backwater, so he's the richest guy in town; and he's so full of himself, I'm ashamed to be his descendant."

"Huh," mumbled Lorimer, fascinated, watching Greta Gail bustle around the little room dishing out stew from a large black cauldron over the fire and pouring water into the same kind of silver cups he remembered seeing Pete Gilbert drinking from earlier. She didn't look like the slender young debutante he remembered from magazine photos and the occasional television interview. She was still slim, but the long dark hair she used to have had been cropped close to her head and was mostly hidden under a little white lace-edged cap. Her face was scrubbed of makeup and she looked younger than she really was. "Uh, who was it who was supposed to have burned Great-Granddad's crop?"

"A friend of this guy I know, Andrew Morris," Greta Gail replied, handing him a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. "I think Andrew wants to marry me, actually. He's been a rabid supporter of the cause almost from the beginning, or at least that's the face he puts on. I found out early on he just wanted to try to seduce me. But I've learned to keep him in line." She tilted her head at him. "If you're here in his friend's place, then what happened to the friend? For that matter, where's Andrew himself?"

"I dunno," Lorimer said around a mouthful of stew that he had scooped up with the bread. "Mmm, this is terrific. Tastes great."

"Thanks," she said, her guard back up again, slowly sitting in the only chair and cradling her bowl of stew on her lap. "Just who are you, anyway?"

Lorimer paused and studied her; her expression said that she had told him all she intended to, and now expected him to reciprocate. He sighed, for the first time feeling reluctant to reveal his true purpose. "My name's Barry Lorimer."

"And what're you doing here?" Greta Gail pressed him.

Lorimer cleared his throat and set the stew aside, resigned. From inside his shirt he withdrew the file pages he'd taken back from Leslie. "Your family hired me to find you," he explained, offering her the papers. "They went ballistic when you disappeared, and they're offering one hell of an enormous reward to get you back."

Greta Gail examined the sheets and blinked in amazement at the long list of her relatives on the second page. "Good Lord. I guess they're really serious." She set the papers aside after a moment and shook her head. "Well, I'm sorry, but they're out of luck, Mister Barry Lorimer. I'm not going back. My family is in the business of dealing out disease, misery and lingering death, and I refuse to be a part of that anymore." A thought seemed to occur to her and she leaned forward over her stew, squinting suspiciously at him. "You don't smoke, I hope, because if you do, I'm throwing you out right here and now."

"I have a lot of vices," Lorimer admitted with a self-deprecating laugh, "but smoking isn't one of them. I tried a cigarette in ninth grade and turned out to be allergic. I was in the hospital for two weeks recovering from that little attack."

"Serves you right," Greta Gail said, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "So let me get this straight, then. You came all the way to Fantasy Island, and all the way back to this time and place, just to find me?"

"Well, not just you," Lorimer said, shrugging. "You're not the only one who's drifted off into the ether during a trip to Roarke's little paradise."

Greta Gail grinned. "I know that," she said. "As a matter of fact, the previous disappearances are what gave me the idea. I didn't know what happened to the others, which suited me just fine—it suggested to me that Mr. Roarke would keep my secret the same way he kept theirs." She peered at him with interest. "You were looking for them too? Did you find them?"

"Yeah," Lorimer said, his expression turning sour with the memory of the day's events. "I talked Roarke and his daughter into letting me go after them. It turned out to be a complete bust, and I think those two enjoyed every minute of it."

"No kidding. What happened to them?" Greta Gail asked.

Lorimer looked up and raised an eyebrow. "You ready for this? David Farley, the actor, retreated into his old TV character; he truly thinks he's Jungle Man, and he intends to remain Jungle Man as long as he lives. Pete Gilbert, the business investor, is richer than sin, but all he wants to do is drink and carouse his way through England in the eighteenth century. And Duke McCall…man, that one's the weirdest of all. I'd think I was hallucinating from drugs, except I don't do drugs. No lie, Greta Gail, he's a merman."

"A what? You mean, as in a male mermaid?" she asked, astonished.

"Yup. He showed off his tail and the whole bit. The guy truly is half fish. Roarke and Leslie must've been laughing their heads off at me. They acted like this is everyday stuff. I see now why it's called _Fantasy_ Island."

She laughed. "No doubt, that place makes a believer out of anybody. So did you convince any of them to give up their new lives?"

"No, and I can see I'm going to have the same problem in your case." Lorimer snorted in disgust and stirred his stew with his bread. "Nobody's gonna pay me, and the rent's due when I get back home." He looked up. "Isn't there anything I can do to convince you?"

Greta Gail shook her head. "Afraid not. I mean, I hate to contribute to your failure rate, but the fact is, I have my reasons for being here and not leaving. Back in the twentieth century, when I started speaking out against tobacco use, my father tried to confine me to the family homestead. Most of my siblings and cousins were calling me traitor and I kept getting the hairy eyeball from just about everybody. Every family member over the age of about fifteen is a smoker, and it's simply sickening. They're making money hand over fist from the destruction of lives."

"Well, I notice you're not having a lot of success on this end, either," Lorimer pointed out. "I mean, it's commendable that you thought to come to the originator of the Great O'Donahue Evil and all, but so far you seem to have accomplished zip. Old Fearghal is still in business, and your enlightenment campaign looks to be a bust."

"I know," Greta Gail said softly, staring into the fire. "I know. But I have to keep trying. I can't live with myself if I don't."

Lorimer slowly ate the rest of his stew, processing her words and her pensive, dejected expression. Something about her was getting to him in spite of himself; he hated to see her wasting her energy and efforts on a fruitless mission. But what could he do?


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- May 6, 1995

Roarke brought Leslie around the last bend in the path and stepped aside, watching her face as he did so. She stopped short and gasped. The Saturday-night luau was in full swing as usual; but this time, there was a huge banner strung between two palms, which read "THIRTY AND THRIVING!" and beneath that, "Happy Birthday Leslie." Roarke grinned and turned to the gathering, calling out, "The birthday girl is here, everyone!"

Heads turned all over the clearing and voices shouted birthday greetings, stunning Leslie. Roarke, half laughing at her reaction, guided her into the thick of the party, where she was promptly surrounded by guests, employees, and her friends and their families. It took her several minutes to regain her equilibrium; by then she realized she was standing in front of a table stacked with gifts and laden with food. In the middle of it all was a gigantic sheet cake frosted in chocolate, with "Happy 30th Birthday Miss Leslie" iced on it in yellow and a huge pink icing hibiscus beside that. She stared at it all, still a little dazed.

"Well, what do you think of all this?" Roarke prompted.

"I'm astounded," Leslie finally managed, blinking at him and sweeping her gaze around at all the people watching her. "I never expected this, that's for sure. I swear, it looks like everyone on the island is here."

"Almost," Myeko told her. "I have the privilege of interviewing you for the _Fantasy Island Chronicle_. This character over here is Gordy—he's taking the pictures." Gordy wore a couple of expensive cameras on straps around his neck and was eyeing the food; when he heard his name, he turned to Leslie and made the motion of tipping a nonexistent hat.

She laughed suddenly. "I remember you. You were the photographer at Tattoo and Solange's wedding. I hope there's enough food for everyone else after you get done." Her teasing tone brought on laughter; Gordy grinned good-naturedly.

There were two candles on the cake, one in the shape of a 3 and the other a zero; Mariki stepped forward and lit them, and everyone sang "Happy Birthday to You", applauding and cheering loudly when she blew out the flames. Her friends gathered around her and handed her gifts; it reminded her in some ways of her fifteenth birthday, when she had been surrounded by Roarke and Tattoo, Camille, Myeko, Michiko, Lauren, Maureen and all their families, feeling for the first time since her family's deaths as though someone truly cared about her. The cast of characters had changed somewhat in the intervening years, but she felt just as cared for. Lauren stood nearby with her fiancé, Brian Knight; Tabitha, likewise, with Fernando, to whom she was engaged as well; Camille was there with Jimmy, David, now nearly five, and the sixteen-year-old quadruplets. Myeko had her two children, three-year-old Alexander and one-year-old Noelle, with her, and to Leslie's surprise was accompanied by Sheriff Clark Mokuleia, who tipped his own cap at her in greeting. Maureen and Grady Harding were there as well with one-year-old Brianna. Though Michiko hadn't been able to come, her parents and youngest sister, Reiko, now almost 26, were in attendance, as were the parents and siblings of Leslie's other friends. As Leslie soon discovered during the long period of unwrapping gifts, Frida Rosseby had sent an example of the quintessential Swedish souvenir, a Dala horse, plus a card containing a long chatty letter.

"Read it to us," Lauren urged her. "We still never hear from her."

"That's true," Leslie said, grinning. "Well, if you guys can find some time for lunch on Monday, I'll read the whole thing to you then. Meantime, she does say that she and Klaus are doing fine, and she also says that her mother and father got married last Christmas and are living not too far from her and Klaus. Her brothers and sisters are still running their mother's café, but they make several visits a year to see them."

"That's gratifying to hear," said Roarke with a smile. "Oh, Leslie, you missed this one." He lifted a large flat package from where it had been propped against the table leg and set it in front of her; he held it upright for her while she removed the card and lit up.

"It's from Tattoo!" she exclaimed delightedly, opening it and scanning the few lines he had written inside. "He's going to call me for my birthday tonight, he says. It'll be wonderful to talk to him again."

"So what'd he send you?" Camille asked.

She ripped off the brown wrapping paper to reveal, to her utter shock, the painting of the main house that had hung in the room where she'd stayed while visiting Tattoo and Solange. "Oh my God," she breathed. "Oh, Father, look…"

Roarke studied it, deeply impressed. "Is this the painting you mentioned to me after you returned from your trip?" he asked.

She nodded. "I'm glad he sent this…I wanted so much for you to get to see it too. We've got to think of a good place to hang it."

"The foyer just up from the study," Maureen offered in the awed silence that fell when Roarke and Leslie turned the painting around so everyone else could see it. "And you know what else you should do? Have a little gold nameplate made, telling who painted this and when. Put it on the wall in the hallway so that if you come inside from the terrace in the back and look straight across the room, that's what you'll see."

"That's perfect," Leslie exclaimed. "What a wonderful idea—thanks, Maureen."

"Yes, that would be the ideal spot," Roarke agreed. "I thank you also, Maureen. Well, everyone…I believe this is the moment to begin having a good time." He grinned, and the assemblage laughed and settled about doing so. Voices rose in animated conversations, and the plane-dock band struck up a lively Hawaiian-flavored tune that promptly filled the dance floor. Leslie found herself greeting a steady stream of well-wishers for more than an hour, fielding birthday wishes and occasionally some comments from visitors, in between conversations with her friends. Roarke made the rounds a couple of times, but came back each time to talk with them.

It was so late when the luau/birthday party wound down that even Roarke was yawning on the way back to the main house. Two of their employees, Mateo and Lono, carried the bulk of Leslie's birthday gifts, while Roarke and Leslie carefully toted the painting between them. They were in the process of taking down the painting currently hanging in the inner foyer when the phone rang and they both hurried to the desk.

"Hello," Leslie said with great anticipation.

"Happy birthday, honorary niece!" Tattoo's voice greeted her from the other side of the world. "How does it feel to be three decades old?"

Leslie laughed. "Not so different! Thanks, Tattoo, and thank you too for the painting. Both Father and I were overwhelmed when I unwrapped it. We're getting ready to hang it in the inner foyer, so it's right there for all our guests to see when they come here. There's no way we could hide something so beautiful."

"Flatterer," Tattoo said, making her laugh again. His voice sounded weary, she thought, and she cast Roarke a worried look that made him round the desk and switch on the little-used speakerphone so that all three of them could talk at once.

"Hello, my friend, how are things in France?" he asked.

"Hi, boss, good to talk to you!" Tattoo said cheerfully. "What is it now, midnight or something over there?"

"Past that, actually," Roarke admitted, and then added teasingly, "Technically, for Leslie at least, you actually managed to miss her birthday."

"_Sacré bleu,_ the horror," Tattoo gasped with exaggerated shock, and Roarke and Leslie laughed. "Well, the painting made it on time anyway. And you know, this is actually the fourth attempt I've made to call you. Where were you?"

"They turned the Saturday-night luau into a birthday party for me," Leslie explained. "It went on for quite a while, and I think some people are still there. I'm glad you kept trying. What kind of birthday would it have been without you being part of it somehow?"

The threesome talked for some ten minutes, catching up and enjoying the sounds of one another's voices, before Tattoo begged off. "I'm sure you both need to get some sleep, and I'm not feeling all that great myself," he confessed.

"Is everything all right, Tattoo?" Roarke asked in concern.

"For the moment," Tattoo said. "I'm just tired—I get tired a lot more easily these days. I really just wanted to wish you a happy birthday, Leslie, and to get a chance to talk to you and the boss. Oh…wait a minute…Leslie, someone wants to say something to you." They heard him prompt someone off the line in French; then a little voice crackled out of the speakerphone.

"_Bonjour, cousine_ Leslie! Happy birthday," it chirped. Leslie giggled.

"_Bonjour, cousine_ Mireille!" she replied, grinning at Roarke. "Thank you, and how are you doing? Are you taking good care of your father?"

"Yes, I promise I am," Mireille Latignon said, giggling. "Are you coming back to see us soon? I want you to read me some more bedtime stories."

"Oh, one of these days, I'll come back," Leslie said. "Who's reading you stories now?"

"_Maman_ is," Mireille said. "But I like it better when you read to me. Oh, _Papá_ wants to talk again. Goodbye Leslie."

"Bye, Mireille," Leslie said, and Tattoo came back on.

"She insisted on talking to you," he said. "She has some memory—it's been almost two years since you were here. Well, I'm afraid I've really got to go now."

They all made their farewells, and after Roarke had disconnected the call, he and Leslie looked at each other. "He sounded more than just tired," Leslie said softly.

Roarke nodded. "Yes, that was my impression too. But he made a special effort to call you for your birthday, and I suggest you focus on that and on our good fortune in having the chance to speak with him. We can leave the painting for the morning; it's time for us both to get some sleep." She agreed and wished him good night, heading up the stairs; and only then did he close his eyes briefly and expel his quiet dread in a long sigh. He had the horrible feeling that the phone call they'd just received was the last time they would ever speak with Tattoo.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** _Got the rest of the story! Thanks for your patience and enjoy!_

* * *

§ § § -- May 7, 1995

Barry Lorimer, drifting in that half-awake, half-asleep state of confusion, smelled wood smoke and frowned in perplexity. Where was he? Opening his eyes, he peered around him and then scowled with remembrance. Oh yeah…stuck in 1720s Virginia. Last night's fire had been banked to glowing embers; across the room on a crude pallet, Greta Gail still slept. He himself had slept on the floor with a rough blanket for covers and his velvet shirt for a pillow; as he sat up, he groaned loudly when a large assortment of muscles protested the sleeping accommodations.

Greta Gail blinked awake and popped into a sitting position. "You okay?"

"Nothing a long hot bath wouldn't fix," Lorimer muttered wistfully. He eyed her in curiosity. "Don't you miss stuff like that? Running water, clean bathrooms, microwave ovens, interstate highways, _Entertainment Tonight_?"

She grinned. "Well, I admit to wishing I could have a nice modern bathroom sometimes, but I've learned to live without the other stuff. How about some breakfast?"

"Depends on what it is," Lorimer said warily. "I hear all they ever ate in the colonies was gruel. Watery, tasteless stuff."

"Well, you're in luck. I have some real old-fashioned oatmeal here. And are you ready for this? Mrs. Fearghal sells it. It's my understanding there are ten kids in the family, and she grows her own oats…apparently a holdover from feeding thirteen brothers back in dear old Ireland. She keeps some to feed her kids, and sells what's left. She rolls the oats and packages them in little bags made out of scrap fabric. I always have to get into town and grab my share, because it sells in no time flat." Greta Gail stoked up the fire all the while she was talking, and now went to a shelf nailed on the wall and opened a box that sat thereupon. She withdrew a small bag and displayed it at him. "Mrs. Fearghal's Own Oats."

Lorimer grinned. "Sounds a heck of a lot better than watery gruel. Say, don't you even know Mrs. Fearghal's first name? I mean, after all, she is your great-great-great-et-cetera grandmother. Or was that lost to history?"

"No, it's a huge unpronounceable monster. I don't know how to say it, but I can spell it. Her name was C-A-O-I-L-F-H-I-O-N-N." Greta Gail smirked. "Say that five times fast."

"No wonder you call her Mrs. Fearghal. Well, let's see if her oatmeal's easier on the mouth than her name." Lorimer grinned again, pleased when Greta Gail laughed, and they had a companionable breakfast together.

They were almost finished when there came a knock on the door, and Greta Gail and Lorimer looked at each other in surprise. "You get many visitors?" Lorimer asked.

"It's probably Andrew," said Greta Gail a bit wearily, getting to her feet. "I'll send him packing post-haste." She cleared her throat and lifted the bar across the door, then pulled it open just enough to peer through the gap. "Oh!" An astonished look crossed her face, and she stepped back to admit Roarke and Leslie, both clad in period clothing. Leslie's straight hair had somehow been gathered into a topknot of frothy dark-gold ringlets, and she looked ready for a formal ball; Roarke was no less elegant in ascot and tails, with a top hat completing the outfit.

"Mr. Roarke?" Lorimer blurted, staring at them.

"Oh…I see you're having breakfast," Roarke said, noting the meal laid out on the crude wooden table. "I do apologize…but there is a matter of some urgency that I must ask your help in resolving. We received a rather strident telephone call this morning, and the caller simply would not back down until I promised to get you to speak with him." This he addressed to Greta Gail, who had been admiring Leslie's dress.

Greta Gail stared at him. "You're joking. Who is it?"

"Your father," Leslie said with a rueful look.

Greta Gail's startled eyes shifted to her. "Is he on the phone right now? I mean, as you're standing here? I mean—"

Roarke chuckled. "We know what you mean, Miss O'Donahue," he assured her. "No, he isn't on the line at the moment, but he did insist that we call him back within fifteen minutes and allow him to speak with you. He hasn't received a progress report from Mr. Lorimer in long enough that he has become decidedly impatient, and he is convinced that I am hiding something."

"I was gonna call the guy as soon as I got back with Greta Gail," Lorimer broke in, standing up, balancing his bowl in one palm.

Greta Gail rolled her eyes. "This whole thing is getting positively ridiculous. I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke—I didn't mean for you and Leslie to be inconvenienced by my need to get away from my family. Tell you what, I'll come with you, at least long enough to tell him to get off my back once and for all. Then I'll come back and just keep plugging."

"Have you had much success?" Leslie asked curiously.

Greta Gail met her gaze sheepishly. "No, I have to admit, I haven't convinced one single person not to smoke…never mind getting old Fearghal to quit the tobacco business. But I can't stop trying, you see? If I can get just one person to stop…"

"Would you come back if you did?" Lorimer asked. "I mean, back to the twentieth century where you should be?"

Greta Gail cast him a look and picked up her own bowl. "You don't mind if we finish breakfast, do you? We're almost done. Would you two like some? There's plenty here."

"No, thank you, we've eaten already," Roarke declined graciously.

"Actually, I'd like a little," Leslie said hopefully. "That oatmeal smells really good."

Roarke eyed her in disapproving surprise. "Really, Leslie Susan…"

Greta Gail giggled. "That's perfectly okay, Mr. Roarke, no trouble at all. Here." She dished up a small bowl for Leslie, who took a taste and blinked.

"Wow," she said, "this is really good! And I thought everything they ate in this era was bland and tasteless." She turned to Roarke. "Are you sure you don't want any, Father? Come on, just a taste." She offered him the bowl, and he sighed, glanced at the ceiling and gave in. They watched as he sampled the oatmeal and nodded, impressed.

"Very good!" he said, handing the bowl back to Leslie. "Quite unusual for this time period, I must say. How did you acquire this, Miss O'Donahue?"

Greta Gail told him the story of her great-grandmother's little business, and Roarke and Leslie both studied her with interest. "How funny that bit of your family history never seemed to come up," Leslie commented.

"Yeah…" Greta Gail agreed, musing. "I wonder if anybody else in my family ever knew about it."

"It's too bad you couldn't convince her to expand the business," Leslie said, finishing the oatmeal and setting the bowl aside. "With something that good, it'd be practically a guaranteed success."

Which was when Greta Gail gasped loudly. "Leslie Hamilton, how'd you ever think that up?" she shouted, startling the others. "That's exactly it! Mr. Roarke, do you think that return call could wait a little while? I have an idea, thanks to Leslie, and I've just gotta try it and see if it works." She turned to Lorimer. "You could always go back and give Dad a progress report," she suggested.

Lorimer set his now-empty bowl onto the table with a loud clack. "What the hell'm I supposed to tell him?" he demanded incredulously. " 'Sorry, Mr. O'Donahue, Greta Gail's trying out this idea back in 1720-whatever, and she'll be back in a couple hundred years or so'? Is that what you think I oughta say?"

"Say what you want," Greta Gail told him jauntily. "If you want me back badly enough, and if you want that reward you say Dad's offering, you'll think of something to tell him. Unless, of course, you feel like waiting till I get back here."

"Hold your horses," Lorimer ordered, grabbing her arm before she could run out the door. "You're just gonna go flying out that door to tell Mrs. Fearghal that she should expand her business? You said they'd go ballistic if they ever saw you, seeing as you're a dead ringer for Mrs. Fearghal. If that's your idea, how do you plan to talk her into it?"

Greta Gail looked around at Roarke, Leslie, and then Lorimer again, and slowly a grin spread across her face. "If you three are willing to help me out, there's a chance I might be able to do it," she said. "After all, you're all already dressed for the parts."

Lorimer thought about it, while Roarke and Leslie watched with interest. "If you do succeed, then will you come back to the twentieth century?"

Greta Gail stared at him for a long moment. "We'll see," she said guardedly. "Right now, let's just concentrate on developing this idea."


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § -- May 7, 1995

The tiny grocery in the town was barely big enough to hold all three of the customers who came in through the door. The proprietor bustled out from a back room, eyes alight at the idea of so many sales all at once. "Good morn, all, and what may I help ye with?"

Leslie drew herself to her full height and lifted her chin, speaking slowly and regally. "I am Lady Hamilton-Roarke, and this is my sire, the esteemed Lord Roarke. We are newly arrived from London and have been told that you carry the finest oat stirabout in all the colonies. Have we been informed correctly?"

The proprietor stared in awe at the "lord and lady" who eyed him down their aristocratic noses. "H-how came ye to know of my humble establishment, m'lady?"

"Our dear friend, Mistress Patience Anne Lindley," said Roarke, his upper-crust British accent dead-on, and turned to indicate Greta Gail, who nodded to the proprietor. The man brightened with recognition.

"Mistress Lindley! So good to see ye this morn. Aye, m'lord and m'lady, I do indeed have the oat stirabout of which ye speak. Shall I have some measured out for ye?"

"We should prefer to speak with its maker," Leslie told him, lowering her chin fractionally. "I am given to understand that she is an Irishwoman?"

"Oh…yes…that'd be Master Fearghal O'Donahue's good wife," the proprietor said, head bobbing in vigorous affirmation. "Ye're in luck, m'lady, she happens to be here this moment with a fresh supply. I shall bring her directly out." He bowed at them and scuttled off to the back room.

"Wow, if I didn't know it was you two, I'd be intimidated," Greta Gail whispered at them, grinning. "Nice work."

Leslie snickered cheerfully. "Hey, this is fun!"

A moment later the proprietor emerged again with a black-haired woman in tow. Greta Gail had been right; she could have passed for the woman's sister. "M'lord Roarke and m'lady Hamilton-Roarke, may I present Mistress O'Donahue, the good lady who mills the fine oat stirabout ye seek." They watched Mrs. Fearghal curtsey low.

"Please rise, Mistress…and do tell me, how large a supply can you ship to London?" Leslie inquired. "Mistress Lindley has informed us that there is none better than your oats."

"Ah, noo, m'lady, ye praise me too much," said Mrs. O'Donahue, blushing. "I merely make enough fer me own bairns an' sell the remainder fer a poor pittance."

"Why, mistress, we had a taste of your product this morn, and it was utterly delicious," Roarke put in with a smile. "Mean ye to say that it is merely a hobby?"

"Aye, m'lord, 'tis true, I fear," Mrs. O'Donahue said with a tiny sigh. "Me husband, noo, he sells the smokin' weed, an' he don't hold wi' me little 'hobby'."

"Might we speak with him? Perhaps we can persuade him otherwise," Leslie said. Mrs. O'Donahue blinked and gave the proprietor a stunned look, while Leslie fielded a quick warning glance from Roarke.

"Forgive me, m'lady," Greta Gail broke in then, stepping forward. "Perhaps we impose upon ye, mistress. I do apologize. But I too am a dedicated purchaser of your fine oats, and perhaps we three together might speak with Master O'Donahue."

"Ye need nae wait," thundered a voice from behind them, and they all whirled around to see none other than Fearghal O'Donahue himself stride through the door, towing the hapless Barry Lorimer by the ear. "Here be the blackguard who burned me latest cr-rrr-rop! Ye ha' rrrr-rrruined me, ye interferin' fool!"

"Which crop, precisely, did he burn?" broke in Roarke.

O'Donahue stopped in his tracks, took in the newcomers with widening eyes, and let go of Lorimer long enough to bow. "M'lord an' lady! Welcome to our wee hamlet! Might I ask what brings ye ta these parts? Ha' ye a pipe that needs fillin', m'lord? I ha' the finest…"

"We come inquiring after your good wife's fine oats," Leslie said, peering at him with great disapproval. "My lord sire smokes not." At which Greta Gail pivoted away to hide the grin that was trying to break out. Roarke gave Leslie a long, dubious sidewise look.

"Me wife's oats, ye say, m'lady?" O'Donahue exclaimed in disbelief. "Ye dinna mean the verra same oats she feeds the bairns, then!"

"Oh, indeed we do, Master O'Donahue. They carry a reputation that has reached all the way to London!" Roarke said expansively. "Why, our very own Mistress Lindley here has naught but high praise for your wife's fine oats!"

Greta Gail, having recovered her composure, curtseyed to her ancestor. "I certainly do, Master O'Donahue. They are worth any price she cares to ask for them."

These words prompted O'Donahue to raise one eyebrow and regard his wife with new interest. "Enna prrr-rrrice a'tall, ye say? Hmmmm." He turned the thought over while they watched him; then he aimed a disgusted look over his shoulder at Lorimer. "Well, ye blackguard, if ye desired ta send me an' me family ta the poorhouse, ye ha' failed. Methinks it be time ta look inta plantin' some o' that horsey swill ye persist in feedin' the bairns, Keelin. Come along an' we'll discuss the possibility." And out they went.

"So _that's_ how it's pronounced," said Greta Gail, earning perplexed looks from Roarke, Leslie and the proprietor, but making Lorimer grin broadly. She caught the eyes of the others and cleared her throat loudly. "I believe we shall accompany the master and mistress to their home so that m'lord and lady might take some oats home with them. A fine day to ye, my good sir, and thank you ever so much."

"Of course, of course…and a fine day to ye also," murmured the proprietor, obviously too bewildered to do more than watch them leave.

An hour or so later, Roarke and Leslie stepped out of the time-travel room, followed by Barry Lorimer and Greta Gail O'Donahue, each carrying a bag of oats. Leslie and Greta Gail were both laughing over their performance like longtime friends, but their merriment was cut short by the sound of the ringing phone. Leslie hurried across the room to pick it up. "Yes? Oh…yes, Mr. O'Donahue…" She held out the receiver in Roarke's direction. "Needless to say, it's for you, Father."

"Actually, I think it's for me," Greta Gail said hastily, before Roarke could reply, and took the receiver from Leslie. "Hi, Dad…long time no speak." She winced as her father's outraged bellow filled her ear; the others could easily hear the noise. "Hey, look, don't blame Mr. Roarke! I'm the one who wanted to disappear, and I wouldn't have let up on him till he agreed, no matter what. You're the one who's always claiming the customer should get what he asks for." She rolled her eyes at his response. "Dad, will you clam up a minute and let me try to get a word in? Honestly, every time I try to say something, you shut me up, and I gotta tell you, I'm sick to death of it. Just because I'm the only person in the family who hates the product—" She stopped abruptly and, after a few seconds, blinked in disbelief. "Huh?" Her silence became protracted, and Lorimer began to shift his weight, catching her attention. "Oh, by the way, Dad, your bounty hunter's right here." She promptly thrust the receiver into Lorimer's hand and presented him with her back, staring at Roarke and Leslie.

"What happened?" Leslie asked.

Greta Gail blinked, as if coming back to the present from some flight of imagination. "Apparently this year's tobacco crop wasn't up to par, and Dad was looking for some way to make up the loss of income. And wouldn't you know it, but one of my nieces was doing a school project on family history and chose none other than Mrs. Fearghal to be the subject of a report she has to give. She found out about Mrs. Fearghal's little business. To quote Dad: 'Your multi-great-grandmother produced some mighty fine oats, I hear, and if Mary Leigh can find out how she did it, we're going into a side business.' He's already planning some TV ads, and he wants me to be the spokesperson for Mrs. Fearghal's Oats."

Leslie peered at her bag, then at Greta Gail. "Is that what he plans to call them?"

"Yeah, I think so," Greta Gail said, still looking dumbfounded. At this point Lorimer hung up and approached them.

"Say, Greta Gail—your dad tells me that if I can convince you to do the TV commercials for his new oatmeal enterprise, he'll double the fee he was gonna pay me." He caught her outraged look and shrugged. "Well, geez, what's the harm? I get paid, you don't have to pitch cancer sticks, and your pop gets to make up the income he's losing through lack of a crop. It's a win-win situation, so why fight it?"

Greta Gail frowned dubiously. "I just have this feeling that there's some hidden agenda in there someplace. Like Dad's got some trick up his sleeve, so that as soon as I'm back in Richmond, he'll corral me and force me to pose for the next ten years' worth of magazine ads for all eight family brands of cigarettes, or something."

"Well," Leslie said slowly after some moments' silence, "my opinion here is that it might be worth it. If you go back and put all your effort into making the oatmeal enterprise succeed, there's a chance it could be profitable enough to convince your dad that there's decent money in oats and eventually lessen his dependence on tobacco for a living."

"That seems plausible," said Roarke, making her smile with appreciation. "It may be a gradual operation; but nothing worth having comes easily. Should you turn your back on your father's offer in favor of returning to eighteenth-century Virginia—where, I might add, you have yet to convince anyone to give up the smoking habit—there is less likely to be a permanent change in the O'Donahue livelihood."

Greta Gail thought this over for a couple of minutes, while Lorimer watched her intently, a passionately hopeful expression on his features. To prod her along, he suggested, "You could always tell your pop you'll do it as long as he doesn't make you go out and stump for smoking."

Greta Gail frowned harder, adding his thought to the mix that was clearly churning in her brain. "Well…" she mumbled, drawing out the word.

"Maybe you could make that suggestion after you tell your father you'll do the oatmeal ads," Leslie offered. "You don't want to push your luck at the very beginning, and anyway, I'm sure he's completely aware of your feelings about cigarettes."

Greta Gail focused on her, her brow clearing. "That's true. You know, the more I think it over, the better I like it." She drew in a deep breath and turned to Lorimer. "Okay, buddy, looks like I'm going home. I guess that means you'll be able to pay your rent."

Lorimer lit up and let out a whoop that made both Roarke and Leslie wince; even Greta Gail grimaced a bit and rubbed one ear. "Oh, sorry about that. But lady, you just made my day. Better than that, you made my entire year! Mr. Roarke, thank you…my fantasy just got granted, and I appreciate it. Not only that, I apologize for all the guff I gave you and Leslie this weekend." He grinned sheepishly.

"No harm done, Mr. Lorimer, and I am very pleased that we were able to bring your fantasy to fruition. And you, Miss O'Donahue…have we granted your fantasy as well?"

Greta Gail laughed. "You know, I think you have. I never expected it to turn out this way, but I guess this is the best way it could've happened." She shook Roarke's hand and then Leslie's, beaming. "Thank you both so much."

"You're very welcome," Roarke said warmly, a broad smile lighting his dark eyes. "It's always gratifying when we can fulfill a fantasy. Miss O'Donahue, we have a vacant bungalow which you might like to make use of. You need only inquire and our staff will bring you whatever you wish—new clothing, a meal, toiletries, anything."

"Fabulous," Greta Gail said and grinned at Leslie. "First thing I'm doing is taking the longest, sudsiest bubble bath in the history of womankind. And then I'm going to have a big lunch with all my favorite exotic food. I've really missed Chinese cuisine, y'know?" She and Leslie laughed; Leslie offered to take Greta Gail to the bungalow Roarke had mentioned, and the heiress agreed and accompanied her out.

Lorimer watched them leave and scratched his head in contemplation. "Mr. Roarke…you think it's possible that she might let me share her lunch?"

"Oh, you never know, Mr. Lorimer," Roarke remarked, still smiling widely. "Perhaps if you hurry and catch up with her and Leslie, you might ask."

"Right." Lorimer grinned. "Thanks again, Mr. Roarke." He rushed out the door, and Roarke indulged in a long chuckle before settling behind the desk to complete a little more paperwork till Leslie returned.


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § -- May 8, 1995

Roarke extended a hand to help Greta Gail alight from the jeep that deposited her and Barry Lorimer at the plane dock Monday morning. "Ah, Miss O'Donahue…Mr. Lorimer. Again, I'm very glad we could be of help to you."

"It's been kinda fun, all things considered," Lorimer remarked with a grin. "Thanks again, Mr. Roarke and Leslie, especially for putting up with me Saturday. I was kind of a jerk, wasn't I?"

"Oh, you were merely on a mission," Roarke said graciously. Then he seemed to remember something and leaned forward with a serious look. "However…if I may beg your indulgence…I must ask you not to reveal what you have learned about the fates of the others who have, uh, 'disappeared' here."

"Don't worry, Mr. Roarke, if anyone ever does find out, they won't have heard it from me. Solemn word. Besides, nobody'd believe me anyway." Everyone laughed and Lorimer turned to Greta Gail, clearing his throat. "Uh…is there any chance I might see you again?"

Greta Gail regarded him with some surprise. "Well," she said, a slow smile crossing her features, "next time you're in Richmond, look me up and we'll have some Chinese together. Maybe we can talk then."

Lorimer grinned hugely. "Excellent. See you on the plane." He shook hands with Roarke and Leslie, then sauntered towards the dock.

Greta Gail snickered softly and reached out to shake Roarke's and Leslie's hands in her turn. "Here's wishing all the best of luck for the success of the oatmeal business," Leslie said, squeezing Greta Gail's hand.

The young heiress smirked. "I've got high hopes for it, especially since I have a little trump card up my sleeve. I'm the only one who knows how Mrs. Fearghal made her oats."

"What about your niece, though?" Leslie asked. "Won't she uncover the secret?"

"Nope. I found out that Mrs. Fearghal never learned how to write, and Fearghal wasn't gonna give her little endeavor enough credit to bother making a record of the method either. So if Dad wants me back in the family fold at all, he better treat me nice." Her laugh mingled with theirs. "I'll send you a shipment of the first oats off the production line. Thanks again, so much!"

Roarke and Leslie wished her a good trip and watched her jog onto the dock, returning her wave. Then Leslie remembered something and eyed her father curiously. "I wonder why Mr. Lorimer didn't ask…" she murmured, mostly to herself.

"Ask what?" Roarke inquired.

"Oh…he mentioned yesterday on the way to his bungalow that he meant to look into the disappearances of Amelia Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa," she said. "I thought for sure he was going to ask you, but I guess he forgot."

"Ah," said Roarke, watching the plane taxi across the lagoon. "Actually, it's just as well he didn't. I have no knowledge whatsoever of Mr. Hoffa's fate: that did not happen here, as I am sure you're aware."

"Oh? And what about Amelia Earhart?" Leslie persisted.

"She made me promise never to tell anyone," Roarke replied, pleasantly but firmly, and gave her the mysterious smile that he knew full well always exasperated her. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, while he grinned secretly to himself.

* * *

_The character of David Farley is from the episode "Jungle Man/Mary Ann and Miss Sophisticate"; the character was played by Dennis Cole. Pete Gilbert was portrayed by Robert Goulet and appeared in the episode "Rogues to Riches/Stark Terror". And Duke McCall (Dennis Cole again) was a fantasizer in the final-season episode "The Mermaid and the Matchmaker"/The Obsolete Man"._


End file.
